CHAPTER SEVEN #3
He caught the blow with his shoulder this time, grunting. The giant had his father’s strength because Moray had possessed him—as no deamhan had ever possessed a human before.
There was no time to understand how the giant could look at him with Moray’s cold eyes. And before Aidan could defend the next blow, the spiked ball ripped across his chest.
Almost blinded by the pain, he finally struck at the giant, cutting a swath from his throat to his navel.
The huge monster towered there, reeling as if in a wind. “Ian lives,” the giant said softly, and he viciously struck the mace at Aidan’s knees.
His kneecaps seemed to shatter as he went down hard on his chest and face.
The giant said again, “Hallo, a Aidan,” and there was no mistaking his father’s voice now.
There was no mistaking his father’s mocking laughter, either.
On the ground, Aidan roared in fury and swung his broadsword across the giant’s ankles, severing his feet from his legs.
The giant grunted, staring down at Aidan in surprise, and then began to topple over.
Aidan dropped his broadsword, his short sword and his dagger in his hands.
He stabbed his dagger into the giant’s heart, but his father laughed at him again.
The sound did not come from the giant, and Aidan realized his father’s power was independent of this body.
He drew his shortsword across the giant’s neck, panting.
And he stood staggering over the body, watching the giant’s head rolling across the rocky ground.
More laughter sounded, but from above.
Aidan stiffened, still reeling. His knees seemed useless, and he had to fight to stand. He looked toward the cruel, taunting laughter, and saw a black energy spiraling into the sky. Aidan had just beheaded an inconsequential being—and his father’s power remained intact.
Moray had returned. But what was he, now?
brIE PACED OUTSIDE OF AIDAN’S TENT. It was growing dark. Most of the men had returned from the battlefield after noon, all bloodied, many wounded, but the majority of them pleased, clearly having enjoyed a bloody battle to the death.
Where was Aidan?
She had been vomiting all afternoon. The brutality of the battle, the cruelty and death, swirled over her, through her, making her dizzy and faint.
So much violence was on the plain below that she couldn’t block it out, nor could she isolate what was happening to Aidan.
Her empathy was a curse she might not survive.
She thought she had felt every blow delivered that day.
God, where was he?
She began to shake with the depth of her fear for him. It would be dusk soon. She had expected some kind of brief engagement, but the sound of medieval artillery—the explosions made by mortars, the clash of swords, the screams of horses—had awoken her at dawn.
Now the camp was raucous, the men celebrating. Fires were roaring, instruments like flutes and fiddles were playing. Women laughed, the men were drunk and loud and some were actually fornicating out in the open with the camp women, who seemed to be enjoying it.
Brie ran up to almost every soldier who passed, begging for word on Aidan. Every reply was the same. “He still fights, lady.”
But she knew the battle was over, because she couldn’t hear swords clashing, or gunfire, or cannons. And suddenly she couldn’t stand upright.
Brie collapsed, screaming, the skin on her arm burning as if it had been torn off.
And then another terrible lash seemed to flay her chest and belly, leaving it raw and burning, as if on fire.
She clutched her abdomen. Looking down she expected to see blood, but nothing was there except the tunic she’d belted over her modern clothes.
Aidan was injured.
And then her knees seemed to break into a million pieces. She went down, moaning in agony. Suddenly Will was beside her. “Lady? What passes? Is it poison?” he cried.
She was briefly blinded by the pain. After all she had withstood that day, she was incapable of movement, incapable of making a sound. Brie stared up at Will. Aidan had just been terribly wounded. Her vision blurred with tears.
“Dinna move,” Will said.
Brie closed her eyes, finally breathing. She did not know how long she lay there, but at some point she opened her eyes, meeting a blue-black night sky that was winking with stars. The moon was nearly full tonight, and it was starkly white. The torment was fading.
Will sat beside her and cried, “Thank Jesus.”
Brie sat up, aching in every fiber of her being. What had happened to him? “Is Aidan back?”
Will’s face tightened.
Brie covered her face with her hands—and then she heard hoofbeats.
Will stood, surprised. “’Tis the black stud. He bears our master!”
Brie staggered upright and saw the black stallion cantering toward them, Aidan astride. She cried out, rushing forward, overcome with relief.
But her relief was short-lived. The horse halted, and Aidan stared down at her. She took one look at his blood-soaked tunic, then at his crimson left arm, and became faint. “Can you get down?” How utterly calm she sounded.
“Aye.” He slid from the horse as if he had a sprained ankle, nothing more.
She now saw his swollen, black-and-purple knees. “Oh, God,” she gasped.
“I’m fine,” he said. He handed Will the horse and strode to the tent, not even limping. The flap closed behind him.
She had witnessed an expression on his hard, grim face that she had never seen before—one of vast concern.
Brie hurried into the tent just as Aidan tossed his bloody leine to the floor, standing only in his boots. “Get Will. I want my boots off,” he said tersely.
Brie looked at his raw torso and his left arm. “Sit down.” She whirled and left the tent to find Aidan’s page. “Will, bring water and soap, and whiskey or wine and anything else to clean his wounds.” Did they even have whiskey in the sixteenth century?
Will nodded and ran off.
Brie returned to the tent and saw Aidan standing there, unaware of her, lost in thought. She had been right. Something terrible had happened. She went to him and touched his arm, about to help him sit. As she did, a memory swished through her.
Her hand on Aidan’s jaw, his thick, dark lashes fanned out, a harsh cry, simmering desire.
She was confused. Aidan suddenly looked into her eyes. She focused. “Let me clean you off.”
He sat. If it hurt to do so, he didn’t make a sound. “Can ye get my boots off?” he asked very quietly.
She hated his calm demeanor! Now she prayed he’d erupt into rage. She took a boot and pulled it off, but not without a huge effort. She looked past his groin at his raw body. “How much does that hurt?”
“It doesna hurt.”
She reached for the other boot and yanked it off after a few moments of tugging. He was covering his pain. “What happened?”
“Doesna matter.” He lay on his back on the bed.
He was really hurt, and blocking it from her, she thought. She had never seen him appear tired, let alone lie down. The tent flap moved behind her and she was relieved to see Will with a bowl of water, soap and linens. “Thank you,” she said.
Aidan slowly sat up. “Will can attend me. Leave.”